


Robert Rochester

by Skylar365



Category: John Wilmot 2nd Earl of Rochester RPF
Genre: Immortality, RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylar365/pseuds/Skylar365
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Earl of Rochester is immortal and enjoys wandering the world. He calls himself Robert Rochester, but changes his last name every couple of years to remain inconspicuous. In this chapter, he meets Edgar Allan Poe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Robert Rochester

**Author's Note:**

> There is not a lot of description on Rochester's outward appearance in this chapter, but I imagine him to be tall, extremely handsome, green-eyed and having brown, curly hair. After all, his great looks are the reason he gets away with a lot. Yes, he's also very intelligent... :-)

# Edgar

In 1850, I had already spent twenty-five years in Canada. Among other things, I had bought some woodland in Alberta and started selling timber, which made me a wealthy man. Inevitably, the time came when people noticed I wasn't getting older, so I had to leave. Wanting to hold on to what I had built, I wrote a will in favour of a made-up nephew, and then went away to create an identity for said nephew.   
Robert Grove, the owner of Robert Grove's Timber, disappeared from Edmonton. Robert Everett, his nephew, who was miraculously his spitting image, appeared in Thunder Bay. There I bought some land and built a house at the shore of Hazelwood Lake, with the funds I had taken with me from Edmonton.   
The house had a basement for storage, an elevated ground floor and patio, which was very useful, as deer and bears rarely climb stairs, and a first floor. Kitchen, dining room, living room, library and bathroom were situated on the ground floor, all the bedrooms on the first floor. The house wasn't as grandiose as the one in Edmonton. The ceiling height was merely ten feet, the floor space a mere hundred and fifty square metres, but for a single man it was still fairly spacious.   
As Robert Everett I wrote to my uncle in Edmonton to let him know my new address – and to ask him for money. A few weeks later I received a parcel with cash and a letter from Robert Grove's lawyer. 

Mr Everett,   
I am sorry to inform you that your uncle has vanished without a   
trace several months back. He has been declared dead. I have   
been his lawyer for many years and am taking care of his   
legacy. In his will he bequeaths his whole fortune to you. To   
accept the inheritance, please come and see me in person, there   
are papers to sign. It is a long way from Thunder Bay to   
Edmonton, but I assure you, it will be worthwhile. Enclosed   
please find the sum you asked for.   
My sincere condolences,   
J. M. Bentley

Faithful Mr Bentley. He would recognise me instantly. We had worked together for more than a decade. Even in disguise he might still know me, for he was a sharp-witted man, and very hard to fool. It was too much of a risk. I had to send someone else in my stead – the question was, who?  
The answer came knocking on my door.  
It was late one evening in August 1850, and very dark. In my new home the gas lamps burned, the most modern lighting system available at the time. The bright glow flooded through the high windows out into the woods, making the house a beacon in the night. It was raining relentlessly. Drops were drumming on the roof and battering against the windows, messengers of the thunder storm raging some miles away. In the distance lightning cracked. I was sitting in my living room, reading a book and involuntarily beating out the rhythm of the rain with my fingers on the side table.   
In the story the male protagonist was playing the organ in an abandoned church, and the requiem reverberated inside my head, all doom and gloom. The romantic mourner wasn't alone, and – in line with Gothic tradition – about to meet the same fate as his beloved. The sounds of the murderer's footsteps closing in on his victim were masked by the music, as was the frantic racing of the paramour's broken heart, its beats counted, his lifetime running out with each sombre note.   
I marvelled at the stupidity of the young man. Not only did he visit the scene of the crime, he did so alone to boot, when he knew there was a killer on the loose.   
A booming knock that definitely came from my front door made me look up in surprise. I massaged my neck, which had gone a bit stiff from pouring over the book. The loud knock was repeated. I put the novel aside, stretched my legs, got up, walked past the cold fireplace and down the hall, fully expecting to find a rabid animal wanting to enter my house. When I opened the door, however, the source of the knocking turned out to be rather human.   
A ragged thin man was standing on my porch. Bleary-eyed, he looked up at me from below the brim of his hat. His colourless eyes lay deep in their sockets, shaded by thick brows. A dark beard covered the lower half of his face. The man was wet and trembled like a leaf.   
“Can I help you?”  
He studied me, leaning away a little, suspicious.   
“What can I do for you?” I tried again.   
He coughed. “I am afraid I lost my way.”  
“Well, where were you headed?”  
“Out of America.”  
I grinned. “If you mean the United States by that, you have been successful. You are still on the North American continent, but standing on Canadian soil.”  
“Really?”  
“Really. Welcome to Canada!” With an inviting gesture I stepped back and beckoned him to come in.  
The stranger followed the invitation, tripping over the step. He coughed again, took off the black felt hat, and turned it around in his hands. He was not as skinny as he had seemed at first glance. The impression came from the old and oversized clothes. The hem of the dark grey coat was threadbare, the collar of the green chequered shirt beneath stained, the brown trousers had holes at the knees. The black shoes were well-worn. One had no laces. His grey eyes wandered through the hall, past the open door to the living room, over the stairs leading to the upper floor. His coat was soaked and dripped on the carpet. Soon he stood in a puddle.   
I closed the front door and extended my hand by way of greeting: “Robert Everett.”  
“Edgar...Edgar Parsons.” His handshake was weak and hesitant, the fingers very cold. The damp smell of fear hung about him, the stress and sweat from running were almost palpable.   
My gaze fell onto the crooked branch in his left hand, which he was holding like a walking stick. “Did you come all the way from the States on foot?”  
“What?” His thoughts had been wandering around elsewhere. “Oh...yes. Yes, on foot.”  
“Tonight you won't get far without a horse. Besides, the weather is nasty and it is pitch black. Unless you want to get lost in the woods, I suggest you stay here. You can have one of the guest rooms.”  
He looked dumbfounded. “Really?”  
“Sure.”  
“But I am a stranger. You don't even know me,” he objected.   
“So?”  
He fell silent and looked at his feet. Granted, he wasn't in the best condition. Shabby as he was he didn't make a trustworthy impression. In addition, he ranged the woods in the dark and wasn't even aware he was in Canada. But I had no reason to be wary of a confused stranger. There was nothing he could steal from me, my fortune still lay waiting in Edmonton. I had no wife he could assault, and in any case I doubted he'd be interested. The poor sod appeared utterly harmless and exhausted.   
“Hang up your coat and come into the living room,” I told him.   
The walking stick clattered on the floor, his rucksack glided from his shoulders. He got out of the coat and hung it on the coat rack, together with his hat. The green waistcoat and the dirty shirt were half-way dry; the trousers were soaked, with water creeping up from the hem. You could clearly see the progress the water had made; dark rims parted the wet cloth from the upper part that was still dry.   
The stranger followed me into the living room, where my book still lay open on the side table, next to a bottle of red wine and a glass, which was half-full.   
“Please, sit down.” Apart from a rocking chair there was an array of armchairs and a chaise longue in front of the fire place. “Would you care for a glass of red wine?”  
“No. No, thank you. I don't drink.”  
Either my hearing was impaired or he was mad. “A man needs to drink. Without liquids humans can't survive.”  
“Oh yes, of course. Let me clarify. What I meant was: I don't drink alcohol.”  
I had never met anyone of that species. He had to have fallen from the sky. Or did they grow on trees? I was familiar with the deprecatory attitude towards intoxication displayed by members of the female sex, but had never met a man who abstained from alcohol.   
“The wine is excellent,” I assured him.   
“Oh, I never meant to criticise, my apologies. I'm sure you have exquisite taste and the wine is splendid. But I don't drink wine.”  
“Whisky?”  
“No, thanks. Whisky is also alcohol,” he explained.   
“Whisky is uisge beatha. The water of life.” Uisge beatha was a word from the Scottish-Gaelic, which the English had abbreviated to whisky. Over the past years I had developed a taste for Scottish whiskies, which were exported to Canada for a lot of money. There were also cheaper domestic whiskies, but they fell short when put to the test of my taste buds.   
“I'm afraid I'll have to pass on this. A glass of water however – ordinary drinking water from the well – would be most welcome,” he replied stiffly. “I would also be inclined to a cup of coffee,” he added.   
“Coffee? Only an American can come up with that idea. I am English and we are in Canada, a country still loyal to the Crown. We drink tea here, if you'd like some. Or just a glass of water, if that's what you want.” I looked at him, waiting for him to change his mind. Instead he nodded without saying another word. I fetched a jar of water and a glass from the kitchen.   
“Thank you.” He took a sip. When he asserted it was indeed just water, he topped up his glass. “I appreciate your kindness. Don't think I'm ungrateful. If you had experienced what I have, you'd also never touch alcohol again.” A shiver ran through him. He pressed his lips together and looked out into the dark rain.   
“I have seen a lot, but never before a man who has sworn off alcohol. It is strange, though of course none of my business, and I don't have a problem with it, either. You just have to get used to me staring at you like a newly discovered species. You are as interesting to me as an iridescent beetle in the rain forest for Humboldt.”  
“Humboldt? You have heard of his work?” he asked, surprised.   
“Yes. My uncle in Edmonton had an extensive library in his house. Besides literature, he also collected books on scientific topics, as well as magazines and newspapers. His private archive is probably more comprehensive than the one at the public library. He invested a lot of money in his collection, yet he never had enough time to read it all.” I smiled. It had always been difficult to catch up on my reading. “There is quite a lot by Humboldt in his library. Fascinating man.”  
“Truly. On his American exploring expedition he came through Philadelphia. That was before I was born, but later I lived and worked in Philadelphia for some time. Sadly, I never had the leisure to engage in research on Humboldt.”  
He contemplated the furniture, then sat down in a wing chair, and shortly after closed his eyes. He positively melted into the chair, being almost swallowed by it.   
“Parsons, right?”  
He jumped. “Er...yes. Please, call me Edgar.”  
“Don't feel obliged to carry on a conversation with your host just to be polite, Edgar. You are exhausted, and I don't mind resuming my reading. If you want, I'll show you the guest room you can stay in.”  
The corners of his mouth turned slightly upwards into a very tired smile. “Gladly.”  
“I have just built this house,” I explained as he followed me upstairs. “You are the first guest.” Only one of the spare rooms was fully furnished. It had a bed, a cupboard, a table with a washbowl on top, and a chair. “In the bathroom downstairs you'll find several jugs with water from the well, and a bathtub. I like bathing in the lake behind the house. Now that it is summer it is warm enough, but still very refreshing, though you had better wait till daylight. In this rain it is hard to see what is right in front of you, let alone trying to tell where the puddles stop and the lake begins.”  
“Of course. Thank you.” He shuffled inside.   
“You're welcome. Sleep tight.”  
He didn't need telling. As I closed the door, I heard him drop on the bed. He was too tired to wash or even take off his clothes. 

The next morning dawned bright and clear, only the wet ground bore witness to last night's rain. I was awake long before my house guest, despite the fact that I had dwelled on my book until midnight. I had already broken my fast when he came down, but had not found it necessary to put on trousers or a shirt. In my red dressing gown I was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, preparing a second pot of tea.   
“Good morning,” I greeted him. “Have you slept well?”   
“Yes, surprisingly so. Like a dead man.” He tilted his head to the side. “I'm not sure I liked it.”  
I didn't comment on that peculiar remark, simply took it as a compliment on the cosiness of the bed. The overtired expression had vanished from his face. Crumpled and unwashed he still was a pitiable sight, however. The kettle whistled.   
“Would you care for some tea?”  
“Black?”   
“Unless you prefer to take it with milk or sugar?”  
“No, neither.”  
“Black, then.”   
After three minutes – during which my guest did not break the silence – I poured the tea into large cups and held one out to him.   
He took the offered cup and turned it in his hands, without saying a word. Conversation wasn't his strong suit, and not because he had burned his tongue with the hot tea. He didn't drink, just continued to twirl the cup in his hands, staring out of the window.   
“Why don't you take a bath in the lake? There's a washing trough on the patio, if you want to clean your clothes.”  
Ashamed he looked at his feet. “I'll take a bath for sure, but I don't have anything else to wear.”  
No wonder he smelled like a sailor who had been once around the world in the same set of clothes. The poor sod was down on his luck. I was mystified by how someone who didn't drink could have gotten himself into such a mess. Maybe gambling. Or the alcohol was responsible for his ruin, and that was the explanation for his hostile attitude towards wine or whisky.   
“You can have some of my clothes. They'll be too wide for you, but what you are wearing now doesn't look like it was tailored for you, either.”  
He smiled sheepishly, avoiding my inquiring gaze. The situation was rather awkward for him. “Thank you very much, that is really too kind...”  
I sensed a refusal coming, so I quickly said: “Yes, and you'll do me a favour by accepting the offer, as I really don't like the way you smell. Go upstairs, my bedroom is at the end of the hall. In the dark oak closet on the right and the chest below the window you'll find everything you need. Take your pick.”  
With a quick nod he disappeared and shuffled up the stairs. I drank some of the hot black tea and considered how to spend the day. The house was finished, but almost empty. Nothing to do about that, a carpenter had already been commissioned to build the furniture, now I had to wait for the delivery. I decided to start on the winter garden I had planned for the south side. I intended to put up the wooden construction on my own during the next weeks, then get some help putting in the window glass.   
In the east the morning sun cast his rays over Hazelwood Lake. Tea cup in hand, I stood at the open patio door when Edgar slipped past me. He left a pile of fresh clothes on the garden table, walked down to the lake and started to undress.   
The head with the filthy hair and dark beard seemed bulky in comparison to the lean pale body, over which the pate hovered, quite independently. The pallid ghost body sunk beneath the silvery water, while the hairy orb danced on the small ripples the swimmer produced. After a visit at the barber's, Edgar would lose the top-heavy look, to better fit his head to the rest of his body.   
Absent-mindedly I ran a hand over my smooth cheeks. Edgar didn't at all resemble me. Nobody knew what Robert Grove's nephew looked like. A nephew didn't have to resemble his uncle. On the contrary, too close a resemblance would be suspicious. If Edgar had the papers to identify himself as Robert Everett, nobody would have reason to doubt him. All he needed were my papers and some personal letters Robert Grove had written to his dear nephew, as well as the the one from Mr Bentley.   
Back then, there were no identification cards with photographs. I could send Edgar to Edmonton and pay him for the trip. In advance, he would get proper attire. Having such a rich uncle, the nephew, next of kin and sole heir, could not turn up in rags at the lawyer's office.   
The idea appealed to me. I needed someone to do me that service, and he was in dire need of pretty much everything. Money wasn't an issue, I just wasn't sure whether I could trust him. There was the possibility he might double-cross me, instead of being satisfied with the recompense. After all, a fortune was at stake, though he'd have to be not only deceitful but also asinine to try and fool me. He'd have to impersonate Robert Everett to get at the inheritance, and as such I'd track him down sooner or later.   
I decided to talk to him after his bath and sat down in the rocking chair, resuming my reading. The winter garden had to wait. A short time later I heard him coming up the patio stairs. Rustling and swishing, he put on the clean clothes and shuffled past me.   
“Hey, Parsons...” I said, not looking up from my book.   
No reaction.   
“Parsons!” Now I scorched his back with my gaze.   
He flinched, stopped in his tracks. Hesitated a moment, then turned around. It was very odd. Something was wrong with him, and I had an inkling what it might be.   
“Yes?” he asked, carefully.   
“Your name's not Parsons, is it, Edgar?”  
The frightened expression on his face betrayed him. “Yes it is, yes, Edgar Allan P...Parsons”, he stuttered.   
“Alan? You didn't mention your middle name yesterday.”  
“Allan is a last name. The surname of my stepfather. Poe...” He bit his tongue. “Parsons. Parsons was the name of my parents. They died very young.”  
“Poe?”  
He rolled his eyes and started to protest: “No, no, not Poe. You heard wrong,” he pleaded.   
Edgar Allan Poe. Lo and behold! He had died last year, or so the newspapers would have had the world believe. I had read some of his short stories published in magazines. They were full of suspense and twists, dark reflections of the human psyche, landscapes of the unconscious – not exactly light reading, but intriguing. The announcement of his demise had been deplorable. When had that been? October? Yes, October 1849.   
“I have heard you absolutely right. Don't try to take me in. I am a lot older than you and have some experience in changing my name.”  
He eyed me with disbelief. “You look younger than me. You are thirty years old, at most.” He was right. He looked at least forty, with worry lines dug deep into his forehead and thick tear bags below his eyes.   
“I have been thirty-three for a hundred and seventy years.”  
His features contorted with horror. “You are insane!”  
I grinned at him, showing white teeth.   
He retreated several steps.   
My loud laughter followed him as he ran away, into the hall and up the stairs, to his room to get his belongings – and back again, when he tripped and almost fell. He saw me, the madman, standing at the bottom of the stairs, and froze. He hadn't been fast enough. He should have left his rucksack behind.   
“You know, in all those years I only once met another immortal. Like me he kept his eternal life a secret. Otherwise people would declare us insane, as you just did. But you know very well I'm not crazy, my dear Edgar Allan Poe. You're supposed to have died last year, and yet here you are, quite alive. You're fleeing from yourself, because it scares the living daylights out of you.”   
Petrified, he stared at me like a hypnotised rabbit stares at a snake before it is devoured.   
“Don't worry, I mean you no harm. I am glad you revealed yourself. Otherwise I'd still be one out of two. With you, our club already has three members. Unless Guy has lost his head by now,” I amended.   
Edgar didn't move, just stood there and stared, an immobile statue.  
“Come on, let's sit down in the living room or on the patio, the weather's so nice.” I took a step back. His gaze wandered to the door. “Don't you dare run away. I want to hear your story. How did you die?”  
“I did not die!” Edgar screamed hysterically. “I was buried alive!” His voice was shrill. And then it broke out of him, like an avalanche he wasn't able to stop. The shocking story rolled off his tongue, moving fast, impossible to hold in: “I woke up in a morgue, with a white linen covering me and a tag on my toe! I was naked, they had stolen my clothes, it was cold, I had nothing on me except a tag on my toe!” He gasped for air.   
“Listen, Poe...”  
“No, no, don't call me by that name! Everybody knows Edgar Allan Poe! Parsons, Parsons! I don't want to be buried again! They're after me, that's why I changed the name! That's why I fled!”  
The man who wanted to be called Parsons was breathing heavily. His eyes wide open, he beat the air with his arms, as if to ward off invisible ghosts.   
“Who are they?” I inquired.   
“I don't know! Demons! They are demons. They can possess everyone. No one is safe. That's the worst thing about it! I can't trust anyone. They can be everywhere. They want to bury me!” Edgar was completely paranoid.   
“You said you woke up in a morgue, so you weren't really buried...”  
“But very nearly so! Very nearly so!” he shouted. “Have you ever been in a morgue? As a corpse? With a tag on your toe?”  
“No. That certainly sounds nightmarish...”  
“Yes it was! Exactly! A nightmare! My worst nightmare had come true. I have always lived in fear of being buried alive! So I had a lot of luck, tremendous luck, not to be buried. You have no idea!”  
Enough was enough. After all, he was not the only one who had come close to death. “I may never have been in a morgue, but I was actually buried. My family put me in a coffin and nailed it shut.”  
This silenced him. He looked at me with utter horror. I gave him a moment for the words to sink in before I continued. “I was buried at sea and the coffin washed up on shore, where it fell apart when it hit the cliffs. Had I had a traditional Christian burial, I would probably still be six feet under, unable to break out of the coffin, let alone dig through the earth above me.”  
Edgar still didn't say anything. Frozen in his tracks, he was a monument of disbelief and fear, so I continued. “I was very sick and weak when I died. I needed help and time to recover after my resurrection, but I did get back on my feet eventually, like you. You were dead, otherwise you wouldn't have ended up in a morgue...”  
“No, no! That is impossible! I did not die. Not really. I am still alive! It was a mistake, they made a mistake!”  
“Who?”  
“The strangers who brought me there!”  
I gave up. This argument wasn't going anywhere. “We'll see. If you are right, you'll grow old and eventually die for real, without waking up again. If I am right, you will not age anymore after your first death and live forever, unless you lose your head, or are cut into a thousand pieces. Lost limbs don't grow back. Every other injury or illness won't cause permanent damage. Wounds heal without scarring. That's what I experienced ever since I died for the first time.”  
“You are crazy! A victim of insanity...”  
“Yes, all right. Would you still be willing to work for me, Parsons? You look like you could need a job, and you wouldn't have to be on the run any longer. You're welcome to stay here, the house is big enough. I won't tell anybody your little secret. My lips are sealed.”  
“Edgar, call me Edgar.”  
“Fine. But you'd better get used to your new name. When Edgar Allan Poe has been all but forgotten, you can use that name again. Until then you're better off with Parsons. Forget Allan, it is too conspicuous. Edgar Allan Parsons. Edgar Allan Poe. EAP. The very same initials. If you insist on holding on to your first name, by all means do it, but remember to introduce yourself with your new last name, Mr Parsons. And try to live without Allan as a middle name for the next decade.”  
Edgar sank down on the stairs and buried his face in his hands. It was all to much for him.   
“Take your rucksack back into your room and join me on the patio.”  
His gaze was empty as he looked past me. “Yes...the patio...my clothes need to be washed...”  
“Don't worry about your old garments, those rags are only fit to be burnt, not worn. You'll get new ones. If you work for me, you'll have to be properly dressed.”  
“Work for you?”  
“I may be crazy, but I'm rich enough to afford it. The job is easy, you don't have to get your hands dirty. Do you have any better offers?”  
Suspicion crept back into his eyes. “What do I have to do?”  
“Let's sit down.” I went into the living room and took two glasses out of the cabinet. Edgar followed me at a safe distance. The rucksack remained on the stairs where he had dropped it, forgotten. “How about some cognac to wash away the fright?”  
“No! The damn alcohol is what got me into the morgue. Especially the absinthe! It is responsible for me waking up in an ice cold room, with a tag on my toe!” Edgar obviously loved the alliteration: tag on toe, tag on toe.   
“All right, just water then. Here you go.” I had never tasted absinthe, but the excitement and panic it caused Edgar surely wasn't worth it.   
The midday sun shone upon the patio. The wooden floor beneath my naked feet was warm. I sat down and enjoyed the yellow rays tickling my face. I was still wearing the dressing gown made of dark red silk, and turned around the cognac glass in my hand. What a decadent life. I leaned back, relaxed and at peace with the world. Edgar sat down stiffly on the other chair at the table. He held on so tight to his water glass that his fingers turned white.   
“Tell me how it came about that you awoke with a tag on your toe.” I was careful to avoid saying ʻhow you diedʼ or ʻtell me about your deathʼ. That would have upset him again and provoked new declarations of his not having died at all. It took him a moment to recollect himself. When he had found what seemed a good starting point, he began:   
“I was on a ship to Baltimore. I had spent the summer in Richmond, where my sister Rosalie lived. She was very worried about my state of health. I was drinking too much. Rosalie thought it would do me good to stop. She took me to a meeting of the abstinence society, of which she was a member. Rosalie believed it would be easier to quit drinking with the support of like-minded people. On one of these congregations I met the love of my youth again. We became engaged. Like me, Sarah was widowed. Together we wanted to start anew. My aunt Maria was still living in Baltimore, alone, I wanted to get her to live with us. The ship arrived in Baltimore in early October. The first thing I did was to get properly intoxicated. Richmond and the abstinence society were far away. I exchanged abstinence for absinthe, my favourite drink.”   
He curled his hands into fists. “After weeks without alcohol I knew no bounds. As someone used to drink I had always been able to hold my liquor, but after some time without it, I couldn't handle it. I drank a lot, far too much: I was like a beggar in the desert who had found a well. Once started, it was impossible to stop. I don't remember anything after that.”  
Edgar paused and drank some water. “The shock of waking up in a morgue next to dead bodies was very effective. I swore never to touch alcohol again, for good this time. I know I'm not in control when I drink, and I never want to be taken for a dead man again.” He rubbed his forehead and stared into the woods, at some vague point in the distance only he could see, lost in thought.   
The birds were singing, and a gentle breeze whispered through the green leaves of the birch trees. The wind disturbed the surface of the lake ever so slightly. It was incredibly idyllic and completely at odds with Edgar's tale of terror, concerning which I still had questions. When I realized I was waiting in vain for him to elaborate on certain aspects, I asked:   
“Do you know why you have been declared dead?”  
He sighed. “The doctor said it was a brain injury, probably a burst blood clot, in addition to an infection of the bowels, a weak heart, and diabetes.”  
“In short, multiple organ failure,” I diagnosed.   
“My organs didn't fail!” Edgar exclaimed. “I am still alive, am I not?”  
I shrugged. “The story of my demise is similar. The doctors weren't able to make up their minds which would kill me first, syphilis or cirrhosis of the liver. As syphilis befalls almost all organs, they couldn't say for sure. To diagnose liver cirrhosis I didn't need a doctor. Like you, I drank too much. After my resurrection, I swore never to drink again enough to kill me. I still enjoy alcohol, but I know when to stop, and find drawing the line quite easy. No blackouts anymore, no hours I can't account for, and I don't wreak havoc as I used to in my youth.”  
“How on earth do you do it?” Edgar asked in disbelief.   
“I don't know. It's not hard for me. I like to drink, but I don't have to get drunk. To stop completely is out of the question. Alcohol is a luxury and stimulant and sweetens life.”  
“I'll never be able to control my consumption,” he groaned.   
“Then don't.” If the solution for him was abstinence, so be it. “How did you find out about the doctor's diagnosis, anyway?”  
“From my aunt. I didn't know who else to turn to. I had been in hospital for several days and she had visited me, but in my comatose state I had not been responsive. She was terrified when I showed up at her house. She promised me to take my secret to the grave and to let the world believe I was dead. Then I fled. I had no money, no proper clothes. It was hard, I was often hungry and cold, slept outside and did not dare to look anyone straight in the face. Lacking any other means of transport, I covered the whole distance from Baltimore to here on foot.”  
I whistled through my teeth. “That's quite a stretch of road.”  
“Fear is a strong incentive,” Edgar whispered.   
“Seems to be.”  
He furrowed his brow. “Have you never been afraid?”  
“I don't thing so. At least not enough to walk from Baltimore to Thunder Bay.”  
“You must be a brave man to face your demons,” he said.   
“Some would say I'm stupid, because I'm not running when confronted with real danger. Even before I became immortal, I was fighting in the front line, exposed to the enemy's fire, and got a reward from the king for my valour. I pushed my luck many times and never thought twice about it. In war, I didn't get so much as a scratch. When it comes to demons, however, I'm not as courageous. A friend of mine died, and instead of dealing with the grief, I embarked on a rather extensive journey. That's how I came to Canada. On a ship from London.”  
“And by now you have crossed half the country.”   
“Yes, farther and farther away from Europe.”   
“If you continue to go west you'll get back there again,” Edgar smiled.   
“I know. Some day I'm going to do just that.”  
“Some day?”  
“Maybe soon. But for now I have business here and I could need your help with it. So let's talk about the job I have for you.”

Edgar agreed to the plan. He took the carriage and pair for the trip. First stop was Fort William, where he bought new attire. Once properly dressed, he left for Edmonton with the necessary papers and instructions. Six weeks later he returned. It was early October.   
The ride itself had not taken that much time, and everything had gone smoothly with Mr Bentley, but Edgar had taken leisure to poke around my old house and pack a few things. I had told him to take whatever he liked and thought the house at Hazelwood Lake wanted: furniture, carpets, paintings. As it turned out, Edgar had no appreciation for such things.   
The first frost was covering the ground when he arrived. I heard the carriage crunch on the icy road and stepped out onto the porch. Edgar was coming up the driveway. He stopped the horses in front of the stables. I went to greet him.   
“Welcome back!”  
“Thank you.” Edgar dismounted. The hoar frost on the grass crunched beneath his shiny new boots.   
“Any difficulties?”  
“No,” he replied curtly.   
I took the reins and loosened the harness. “That was a long trip, wasn't it? The warm stable's waiting for you, with fresh hay and water. Go on!” The mares found their way on their own, while Edgar was pulling away the canvas cover from the cargo space and started to unload. “You can't be serious!” I exclaimed on seeing what he had brought with him. “All books? Was there nothing else you found worthwhile?”  
“No, just a few books.”  
“A few? That looks like half the library!”  
“Hardly. The carriage was too small for that.”  
The mares had retreated into the stable. I closed the gate behind them and helped Edgar carry the books into the house. He took off his hat and coat. Out of an inner pocket he produced some papers he was eager to get rid of. The transaction was awkward for him and he wanted to be done with it.   
“Half of the money will be transferred to the bank account of Robert Everett in the bank at Fort William. The cashier couldn't name an exact date, the money will be here with the next guarded cash transport. The income from Robert Grove's Timber will also be paid to said bank account in Fort William. The other half of the money remains in Edmonton for now, supervised by the lawyer Mr Bentley. He will give regular accounts to Robert Everett.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I think that's all.”  
“Sounds good. Excellent.” I accepted the papers he was holding out. With all the miles in between the two towns and no photographs, no one would ever know that the Robert Everett who had claimed the inheritance in Edmonton didn't look like the one who had opened a bank account in Fort William in the summer.   
“So the job is finished.”  
“Apparently you didn't like it.”  
“It is fraud,” Edgar said quietly.   
“Sure.” I grinned. “I cheated myself out of my own money.”  
“I still don't believe your tale about being immortal.”  
“Then at least believe that Robert Grove was my uncle and I simply too lazy to make the trip to Edmonton. I assure you, the land, money, and all possessions of Robert Grove are rightfully mine.”  
He shifted from one foot to the other.   
“Why don't you come in and sit down? Have a drink – of water.”  
Edgar didn't reply.  
“Or, if you want, I'll pay you and you can leave.”  
“No. I'd prefer to take you up on the offer to stay here. Something is amiss with you, but I don't think you're a liar or a thief, nor a bad man. You certainly had your reasons not to take care of this business in person.”  
I was silent.   
Edgar continued. “I don't have anywhere to go, and I don't want to run anymore. Also, I would like to read the books I brought with me.”  
“Then you'll stay a very long time!” I laughed.   
“I don't mean to impose on you...”  
“Nonsense, I'm glad to have someone to talk to. Do you play chess?”  
He didn't. I taught him. It wasn't his favourite game. In fact he didn't enjoy anything much, except for reading and writing. The library at the house near Hazelwood Lake prospered. Edgar added his own writings to it, notebooks filled with thoughts on authors, stories, observations on nature, ideas, and sketches.   
The house was stacked with paper: books, newspapers, magazines, notepads, loose sheets. They didn't last long in the winter garden. Thanks to the abundance of orchids and other flowers it had a high air humidity and the condensed water fell in drops from the glass ceiling onto everything lying around. Ink diluted and crept away in little rivulets.   
Edgar spent most of his time in the library, sitting in a wing chair, sometimes sleeping in it. Occasionally, I would poke him to see if he was still alive.   
“Hey! What did you do that for?”  
“You fell asleep while reading – again.”   
“Oh no.”  
“Don't worry. How about some exercise? At least walk to the next room. Come on, you can make it.”  
“Chess?” Edgar asked suspiciously.   
“Chess.”  
Playing chess with me kept him from his beloved books, but it was the one thing I asked in return for granting him asylum. Apart from that I hardly saw him. The housekeeper I had hired noticed Edgar mainly when she was cleaning and he got in the way, immovable during reading, musing, writing, pondering. At meals he was a rare guest. If he ate at all he did so in the library, where he consumed nourishment for body as well as soul.   
Often I heard him soliloquising. Edgar talked in monologue, repeating sentences and words over and over again, seldom making any sense, nor apparently intending to. At times he would make a note on a scrap of paper. Edgar only indulged in mundane communication for my benefit.   
We played chess in the living room, where the flames crackled in the fireside, now that winter had come. Edgar's performance at chess lacked refinement, so he got to open the game, playing white.   
“Will you eventually share your stories with me?”  
“Which stories?” Edgar decided on the queen's pawn.   
“The ones you write in your notebooks.” My queen's pawn set out to meet his.   
“They are not real stories, just beginnings. I never make it past the planning stage.”  
“Planning stage?”  
“Of course. You can't attempt to create a story unless you have first carefully planned each detail.” Edgar played chess as he wrote stories. It took him a long time to deliberate his moves.   
“Yes you can. I simply write one verse underneath the one that came before. In the end, it's a poem.” It was the way I played chess. Step by step, one after the other. After all, it was impossible to outline everything before it actually happened. Even with a highly predictable player like Edgar you could never be absolutely sure which was going to be his next move. Sudden turns are a part of life.   
“No, no, you can't compose in that fashion!”  
“I always have. The composition evolves as it is put in words.”  
“You can't artlessly start to write without knowing where you're headed, that is child's play!” Edgar blustered.   
“Byron did it that way.”  
“Lord Byron? How would you know?” His eyes narrowed.   
“I was there.”  
“Now you start afresh with your delusions. You never knew him, it is utterly impossible. He died twenty-six years ago. But science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence, so perhaps you have a point. After all, all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. Then again, Byron's poetry is far too perfect in form to have flown out of his feather without deliberation.” Finally he moved his second pawn.   
In response I put my own pawn one square further ahead. “Byron simply started writing, then changed the text, added, erased, until he was satisfied.”  
“Nonsense. Every plot deserving its name has to be schematically designed, including the denouement, before one sets pen to paper.”  
“Doesn't seem to work for you though, does it?”  
“No,” he sighed. “Pieces are missing everywhere. The picture remains incomplete, nothing more than a sketch arises.”  
“Why don't you try a new method? Just write and see where it takes you and your stories. Maybe this will help you to fill in the blanks.”  
“Sorry, I don't agree. A good author is like an architect. He doesn't start building without all of the blueprints already finished.” Edgar brought his knight into play.   
Mine countered. “So there is no room for adjustments?”  
“Of course, but one has to be cautious as to how it affects the whole. A composition is never the product of an accident or intuition,” Edgar argued. “Precision and consequence are crucial, as in mathematics.”  
“And here I thought mathematics and literature were separate domains. Logic is a part of science, whereas unruly creativity belongs to literature.”  
“The two are not mutually exclusive. Literature is a science,” he objected. “It has fixed forms and these follow rules.”  
“Rules are made to be broken. You are a master at it. You brought a whole new dimension to the short story by inventing detective Dupin.”  
“True, but I do adhere to my own rules.” Edgar had the white bishop attack the black knight.   
“Such as? I mean, apart from meticulous planning.” My black bishop defended the knight against the white bishop.   
“It should be possible to read a literary work in one sitting. If it is too long for that, a break has to be made, worldly affairs disrupt the story and ruin the effect, the impact on the reader, and the unity of the work.”  
Childe Harold and Don Juan are epic poems, too long to be read in one sitting, but Byron never minded. He just wrote, on and on. This may be the reason why Byron produced a lot more in his thirty-six years than Edgar in forty.   
“Everybody reads at a different pace. How do you determine what the right length is?”  
“About one hundred lines for a poem,” Edgar elaborated. “The Raven has one hundred and eight lines. It is my best known piece, and it deserves to be, for it is perfect in design, length, and topic. The sole legitimate theme for a poem is beauty, because it elevates the soul – not the mind, not the heart. The soul. And beauty most affects the soul when it appears in sad garb. This is the reason why melancholia is the best of all the poetic humours.”   
Another white pawn entered the battle field and gave way for the king's bishop, who threatened the black knight.   
“Sounds dark and dismal.” The black knight from the last row came to help his twin that had hurried ahead.  
“It is supposed to. Dreariness causes the highest empathy of the soul. This pleasure is reached through unity and repetition. The refrain works with the power of monotony of sound and thought.”  
“The same thought is repeated with the same words – thus saddens more intensely?”  
“Precisely.” Edgar moved his second knight.   
“So that is why you had your morbid raven repeat Nevermore! I found it a bit dull and disappointing that the bird has such a limited vocabulary, though I can't deny its effectiveness. I always wondered why, instead of being bored to death by the one-word-bird, the reader aches over losing Lenore, together with the poet.” The black king castled.   
“This is the key. The most melancholy topic is death, and merging with beauty it becomes the most poetic. Thence the death of a beautiful woman is the most poetic topic in the world, and the voice best suited for this topic is the one of a grieving lover.”  
In this, Byron would have whole-heartedly agreed with Edgar. His poetry abounded with melancholy. Renouncement and loss, being separated from the beloved, and her death, were themes Byron had employed repeatedly, often ending in self punishment and suicide of the hero, who was unable or unwilling to live without his beloved.   
“I prefer living women.”  
“There is nothing more beautiful than a female corpse,” Edgar said, yearning in his voice.   
“You're sick and twisted,” I retorted in disgust.   
“In Pompeii you didn't find it unnatural.”  
I had told him about my visit to the city destroyed by a Vesuvian eruption, and the lovers I had found there. “They weren't really corpses, rather statues, and I never drooled over her. The couple was poetic because they died making love, arguably the most beautiful way to die. They were both still alive while fornicating, celebrating life, not death.”  
“To realize this, both have to die simultaneously, not just the woman.”  
“And a good thing too. Just imagine only one of them died – the other would be marred for life.”  
“The dead one wouldn't mind,” Edgar shrugged.   
“You're an egocentric monster.”  
“I never said I wanted to die like that.”  
“Right. You don't want to die at all, but obsess over dead women. You belong in the morgue.”  
Edgar didn't respond. He prepared a castling with another bishop. “Of course she has to be beautiful.”  
“Of course.” I strengthened the position of my pawn in the centre. “I prefer live ones, though. Particularly the one with the purple eyes.”  
Confused he looked up from the chessboard. “Purple eyes?”  
“I have seen her in my dreams, and once, I believe, I actually met her. It was a long time ago and I wasn't in the best condition. If she was real or not, I can't say for sure. But I wish she was.”  
“You're insane.”  
“And you are not?”  
“No.” Edgar searched for words. “How shall I explain it? – Have you ever gazed upon the body of a beautiful dead woman?”  
“Sure. Every Saturday night. It is the highlight of my week,” I answered sarcastically.   
He sighed. “You have never been under the spell of such a woman.”  
“Ah, so that is what happened to you in the morgue.”  
“What?” he asked, bewildered. “No. Nonsense!”  
“You belong there, like a fish in the water. So what was the catch? Did all the pretty ones go on an excursion and leave you behind?”  
“That is not amusing!”  
“Was none of them beautiful enough for you? You would have made such a nice couple, with your tags on your toes, the perfect match. Who needs shoes for a wedding dance?”  
He stood up. “You are disgusting!”  
“I am disgusting? When you're the one lusting after corpses?”   
Without a retort, Edgar left, stomping. The game remained unfinished. I guessed it had not been planned very well. Not a single man had fallen. 

Over the years, I came to the conclusion that Edgar wasn't a necrophile. His enthusiasm for corpses was restricted to poetic theory. Meanwhile, he also didn't take an interest in living women, nor men, animals, or objects. He left the house when he had to, bathed when he couldn't postpone it any longer, and cut his brown beard when it got in the way while reading or writing, turning black because he had inadvertently dipped it in the ink pot.   
Literature and politics fascinated him, as did all constructs of the human intellect. Edgar didn't care much about the heart, he was all mind and soul. He chose thought over action and revelled in solitude.   
While I visited the neighbours and stayed away for days on end, Edgar followed political developments in the newspapers. Coming home after my ramblings, he caught me up on the latest tidings.   
“Civil war broke out in America!”  
I had just stepped inside. “Nice to see you, too. How are you?”  
“Does this news leave you cold?”  
“Am I allowed to take off my shoes before I answer?” I untied the laces.   
“There is a war going on in the United States!”  
“As long as they fight each other, at least they don't bother us,” I said on my way to the kitchen. I poured a glass of water and drained it in one gulp. I needed to wash away the headache.   
“There are misgivings that the conflict may not only provoke changes in the USA. Should the Union separate from the Confederates, they could look towards Canada to expand their territory. Perhaps the Confederates annex Mexico. Both sides will try to gain land.”  
“They should keep their mess within their own borders.” In the living room I took a bottle of whisky from the cabinet. Edgar followed me.   
“For the moment they do, but nobody can predict if, or when, the war will spread, or how it will end.”  
“With a lot of dead men and few freed slaves,” I remarked dryly. “You know I hate political discussions. If you want to talk politics you have to play a game of chess with me, otherwise I'll leave again and you can talk to the wall.”  
“Fine,” he sighed with resignation.   
It transpired neither of us could come up with a solution for the American conflict. We both sided with the slaves and wanted freedom for all humankind, but feared it would not be attained peacefully, if at all.   
In the meantime, Edgar made progress on the black and white battlefield. “Draw!”  
“Draw.” I had more pieces, but was stuck. “Congratulations!”  
For the first time he had beaten me. I was happy for him, and proud of my success as a teacher.   
The War of Secession lasted four years. To protect themselves the provinces of Canada banded together as a confederation. In July 1867 the Dominion of Canada was founded, consisting of Ontario, Quebec, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia.   
“Who could have foreseen that? Canada emerges as a new state with its own legislation, relatively independent of Great Britain!” Edgar was thrilled.   
“We're still affiliated with the Crown,” I reminded him.   
“Yes, but we are a force to be reckoned with, and can oppose the United States, if need be. It stabilises our international position.”  
“Good, so you can hold the fort on your own.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“We've been living here for seventeen years. Believe it or not, neither of us has aged. Take a look in the mirror.”  
Edgar kept silent. He didn't know what to make of immortality, so he ignored it.   
“It is time for me to move on. You're welcome to stay. Nobody suspects you exist. You lead such a secluded life. Just remember to hire a new housekeeper every couple of years.”  
He was taken aback. “Where are you going?”  
“West.”  
“But there is nothing out there,” Edgar protested.   
“Nothing? Do you believe the earth is flat and I'll fall off its edge as soon as I arrive at the horizon?”  
“Of course not.” He hesitated. “It is just...”  
“You can't imagine giving up the security this house affords. That's fine, but I want more.”  
“This is your home,” he remonstrated.   
“No. I don't have a home. And I don't want to be tied down. There is a whole world out there.” I smiled. “Don't worry, we'll meet again. Remember what you told me: if I continue to walk west, one day I'll arrive at the place from which I started. William Blake believed everything would fall into place in the end. Maybe I'll even find the woman with the purple eyes.”  
“Be careful what you wish for,” Edgar cautioned. “It may come true.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to this. My cousin suggested trying fanfic - well, reading it, not writing it. But I'm not interested in the kind she is into, and there is not a lot of what I love (long dead poets), which is why I started writing a couple of years ago. It was never intended as fanfic - until very recently I didn't even have a clue that existed (yes, I do live under a rock, together with my beloved dead ones) - but I think it does fit here and I wanted to share, because there is a chance that someone else, somewhere on this planet, might enjoy it.


End file.
